It took five days for Javier to return back to San Salvador. Diego hadn’t had much contact with him and the last we had heard before it went to radio silence was that he was in the mountains without a signal except from the satellite phones. The two of us waited day in and out, anxiously trying to pass the time.
Not that Diego would ever show any anxiety. The big beast of a man was as cool as a cucumber, reminiscent of how Javier could be on his good days. Or maybe those were his bad days. It was hard to tell when both fire and ice could burn you.
By day four, I was doing a lot better. I was in a sling now and could walk around, though moving my shoulder hurt like hell, even with low doses of morphine. Sometimes it felt like there was a grinder inside me, working to the bone.
The morphine was more for the burns anyway. Thankfully the one on my face was healing faster and didn’t need a bandage, even though I wanted it covered up more than anything. The one on my stomach was trickier and sometimes the pain got so bad I would break down and cry.
Diego wanted the nurses to give me more drugs but I was adamant against it. I wanted to be as clear-headed as possible these days, even if it hurt me to do so. I played one-handed cards with him instead, determined to pull through and save face.
When Javier walked into the room on the fifth day, I knew it was bad news. Not just because he didn’t have Esteban with him but because I was certain he would have notified us along the way if he had been successful. No one likes to broadcast their failures.
Needless to say, I was glad to see him. Even though I felt like an absolute wreck with my beaten looks and pain that half-straddled the morphine cloud, the sight of him, defeated or not, warmed my bitter heart.
“No good, huh?” Diego asked him while Javier strode across the room and collapsed into one of the stiff metal chairs by the wall.
Javier leaned forward, pinching between his brows, but didn’t say a word.
Diego looked at me. “Perhaps I should leave you too alone.” When Javier didn’t move nor utter his protest, Diego got up and left, closing the door behind him.
I leaned back against the wall and started gathering up the cards, leftovers from our simple game of Burro Castigado. “Do you want to talk about it?”
Javier shook his head, his eyes still closed.
“That’s fine,” I said. “I’m doing better, by the way. I can leave here tomorrow they said.”
Finally he looked at me. “Good.” He sighed heavily. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to … you look a lot better.”
I smiled softly. “I thought you said I already looked better.” I gently touched the burn on my face for emphasis. It had stopped being numb, a good sign even though the outer damage wouldn’t go away.
“I meant it,” he said. But he still didn’t get up. I was acutely aware that whatever exchanges we shared when he first saw me here wasn’t about to happen again, not now.
“Do I dare ask what happened?” I said cautiously, worried that the question would press all the wrong buttons. He was tense, stressed, and if he hadn’t unleashed his fury on Esteban there was always the chance he would unleash it on me.
But he didn’t. He sighed and leaned far back in his chair, legs stretched out in front of him. His dark jeans were coated with a layer of dust and it’s only then that I noted how uncharacteristically messy he was. Even his longish hair was out of place.
It actually made him look a bit boyish. Not quite vulnerable because Javier was anything but, but still … younger. Perhaps more real.
“He was there, Luisa.” He wiped his hand over his face and stared out the window. “He was there. We were so close. We missed him by a matter of ten minutes I’m guessing. If we had known that to begin with, we could have got him. We wasted too much time in his house … we’ve wasted too much time already.”
“But,” I said, running my hand over the cards and flipping them up one by one, “there is no time limit on revenge. Don’t they say it’s a dish best served cold?”
“The Americans say that,” Javier said, eyes hard. “The longer he’s out there, the longer that he’s allowed to think he’s won. He’s not won.”
“No,” I said. “I’m still alive. And you’re here with me.” I swallowed hard, afraid to go on. But I had to. “Aren’t you?”
He looked at me sharply. “Of course I am.”